Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (19 page)

Alexander beamed and sat back to observe his rejoicing flock.

Most were laughing exuberantly. Some were dancing, parading about their tables as they ate to the tunes of old Mr Hadley’s band, which had taken to the pulpit for its acoustics. Others silently played cards, with mountains of coloured chips laid out beside their empty plates, their food having been demolished in minutes.

A few lined the nave’s shadows, leaning against the walls, eating spiced meat and watching the celebrations as though from above, basking in the laughter and good cheer.

All were smiling.

Elders danced, children giggled and frolicked between the columns. Some were disappearing into the cloister through the iron gates at the back, while others slipped through rusted side doors to laugh and be foolish outside.

Light, humid summer breezes whistled in through the main entrance, rustling the hair of a group of men gathered around the cider barrels, chugging the amber liquid with zeal and cheering each other on. One of them lay on the floor at the others’ feet, clutching a chair leg and staring up at the ceiling with inebriated glee.

Lucian sat beside Norman, leaning over Agatha with a tenderness that he’d always reserved for the likes of her, for she had been among the city’s founders—though Norman suspected it was more than that. He treated her almost as a mother, spooning her morsels of pastry.

Across from them, Sarah lay in Robert’s arms with a book open in her lap, tracing her fingers along the defined contours of his bulging arms. He, in turn, remained motionless, gazing down at her in an eternal stare.

Richard and John had taken the adjacent table, bent over their chessboard. Their faces were set and emotionless, but about them was a static that betrayed their underlying joy—even as John lifted Richard’s king from the board. “Checkmate.”

“Son of a bitch,” Richard muttered.

John turned to his foot-high mound of stuffing with the smallest of smiles upon his face, pausing to grip Richard’s shoulder. “You’ll get it,” he said.

Richard muttered under his breath and got to work on his own plate, but Norman couldn’t help but notice the smirk playing upon his own lips, all too similar to the Master’s.

Amidst flickering candlelight, Norman ate and watched the celebrations. He was glad that the foraging had been worth it, but still his stomach churned at the sight of their glee. For each face that he saw before him, smiling and satiated, he saw a skull in his mind’s eye, half-buried in the wilted grasslands beyond the city.

At some point he heard Alexander’s voice, far away. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t respond immediately. “Yes.”

The potato was delicious, the best he had tasted for what seemed like decades. He hadn’t seen butter since November, and there had been no chance of churning any even for the feast, but something had been mixed into the mash to make it creamy and smooth. The pork had been braised with a sauce rich in notes of apple and cinnamon—the latter of which he suspected had been acquired through many hours of sifting through buried Old World spice racks.

Though his taste buds squirmed with delight and his distended stomach throbbed with bliss, he found it ever more difficult to swallow. He was finding the celebration harder and harder to watch.

It was too much, too absurd. To be so indulgent was almost an act of bravado. Those around him would forget their worries for a few hours, but the cost of such a reprieve was surely that of many lives. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, had most probably seen their last day and faded from hunger so that they could dance, drink and be merry.

He was on the verge of finally rounding on Alexander when Heather appeared in their midst, a tall woman in her early forties, sporting an equine face and waist-length, wispy hair. She was the closest thing the city had to a real doctor, the disciple of Clara Fields, a legendary oncologist who had survived the End and travelled the land treating the sick in exchange for bed and board, known across southern England during the Early Years, until she’d met her own end at the hands of squabbling highway bandits.

Instead of recreational attire, Heather was clad in a long white coat and medical gloves, both of which had been marked by streaks of red. Beneath them blue scrubs were visible, stained by perspiration at the collar.

She stopped in the middle of the hall, her eyes darting among the partygoers. A few people stopped dancing to stare, and a couple of wizened old men looked up from their cards, frowning.

Then Heather spotted Norman, Alexander and Lucian sitting at the table and made a beeline for them, taking long strides that betrayed great urgency.

Alexander turned to her, whirling from his seat. “What is it?” he said.

She didn’t speak until she was upon them, leaning close. “Come with me,” she murmured.

The sun had long since set. The noise of the feast dissipated as they trudged away from the cathedral onto the deserted cobbles of Main Street. Their footsteps boomed in echo, and sodium-vapour streetlights threw an amber glow over their shoulders, draping tall shadows out ahead of them.

Heather’s face was drawn tight over her skull. She’d refused to explain until they got to wherever they were going, and led the way at a near run.

Norman quickened his pace until he was beside her. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I need you to see this. I’m out of my depth.” She said no more.

Norman frowned, but remained quiet thereon. Alex and Lucian showed no sign of confusion, but he wasn’t sure whether that meant they shared his bemusement or not.

They walked in silence for almost five minutes before they came to the infirmary. It was a squat building, nestled between an accountant’s office and the boarded-up ruins of a gastropub, all whitewashed walls and wilted public-health notices.

Through the reception window Norman could see piles of machines, instruments and medical journals jammed against the walls. Most of it had long ago been pillaged—or rescued, as Alexander would have said—from hospitals, and hadn’t seen a flicker of life for decades. But there it sat nonetheless, waiting.

They pushed their way into the darkened reception. Most of the diverging hallways were littered with pamphlets on hygiene and textbooks on biology, browning and decayed, their pages bloated.

Without pausing, they passed from the reception into one of the few clear corridors. Open doors led off into the ghosts of GP offices on all sides. Boxes lay within, some piled on the desks and others obscuring curled posters of human anatomy on the walls.

They raced along until they came to a much larger space at the rear of the building, what had once been the clinic’s storage room. It was now their infirmary.

Polka-dot cubical curtains hung from rails upon wheels, each surrounding one of a dozen beds lining the far wall. Each curtain was open, each bed empty and neatly made—with the exception of the one directly before them. A liberal splattering of thick mud lay on the floor around it, overlaid by a pile of discarded clothing, torn and bloodied.

Lying upon the bed, groaning and gasping, was an ashen-faced old man. His eyes were shrunken and wary in his skull, giving him the appearance of a ghost clad in a paper gown. Only his eyes moved as they approached, swivelling in black-blue sockets to watch them approach.

A nurse tended to him in the gloom. She kept a small sponge moving over his head, such that small trickles of water constantly ran across his cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice.

They gathered around him in subdued silence as Heather crouched beside him. “How are you?” she whispered.

The man only stared back at her, slack-jawed and broken. Even when she repeated herself, he didn’t seem to hear her. His gnarled fingers clung to the tops of the sheets, trying to shield his withered body. His face was caked with the same thick mud as the clothes on the floor, beneath which lay a mask of crusted blood, faded and rustic in hue. It didn’t look like it had come from any particular injury. Instead, it seemed as though he’d merely been basted in it.

“He’s been beaten very badly,” the nurse said, mousy and nervous in Alexander’s presence and, Norman thought, perhaps, his as well.

“We can see that,” Lucian said.

She shook her head. “It’s not just that, Mr McKay, sir. He has lacerations all over his abdomen, like he was attacked by an animal.”

“Have you stopped the bleeding?”

“For the most part, but we can’t guarantee that he hasn’t got an internal bleed. His stomach is blotchy, but it’s hard to see past the bruising.”

Heather waved for her to be quiet and turned to the old man. “Are you in pain? We can give you some more medication to help,” she said.

The man only sighed. His shoulders slumped by a fraction.

Heather tried again, “Were you alone? If you have family, we can try to find them for you.” She waited a moment and then added, “We won’t hurt you.”

Again, the old man lay still. After several moments he turned his head away from her. “Not now,” he whispered, his breath rasping in his throat. “Leave me, please.”

His accent was odd. Lilted in a way that Norman had never heard.

Alex and Lucian started.

Norman turned to them. “What?”

“He’s Irish,” Alex muttered. He blinked, his mouth slightly ajar.

“You came across the sea?” Lucian cried, taking a step forwards. “There are still people there? Are there others?” His breath whistled in his throat. “Is the world still out there?”

Heather reached forward to catch Lucian’s arm. “In time,” she said.

“But he’s—”

“In time. Let him rest.” She turned to Alex. “This isn’t the kind of injury we see from a squabble over food,” she muttered. “His injuries are too severe, too widespread. Somebody tried to beat him to death.”

As she spoke, the nurse reached across the old man and removed his blanket, soothing him when he struggled.

Norman almost uttered a gasp as a mottled, skeletal body was revealed, blemished with scurvy sores, misaligned bones and a thousand purpling bruises. Without a trace of muscular tone, striated with tracts of dried blood, the man’s body was enough to unsettle his stomach—and to dredge up memories of Margate’s starving locals, reaching for him.

Reaching…

He shivered and cleared his throat.

“We’ve no idea who he is. He won’t tell us his name or where he’s from. He hasn’t said much of anything, for that matter,” Heather said.

“What
has
he said?” Lucian asked.

Heather looked away as the old man groaned in pain, and then turned back to them. “When he was brought in he was shouting for someone—Billy, I think—but he stopped talking as soon as we got him to the bed.”

“Billy?” said Alex.

Heather shrugged. “He was alone. He might have been hallucinating, because he’s taken a good few blows to the head.”

Lucian went to the window. His face had contorted into a mask that failed to hide a boiling tumult behind his eyes. His brows had creased into the jagged crevasse between his eyes. “How did you find him?”

“Hubble found him in the woods when he was out on patrol. He says he found him face down in a streambed…that there were footprints everywhere.”

Lucian stormed towards the corridor before she’d finished.

“Where are you going?” Alex said.

Lucian’s bellowed reply echoed throughout the clinic, “To find Ray!”

Alex and Norman shared a look, and then headed after him, stepping over the pile of stiffening clothes as they went. As they were about to pass the threshold, the old man cried out, “
Stop!
”

They both froze, turning to each other and then to him.

He had struggled onto an elbow, propped up by Heather, who hurried to place a supporting pillow behind his back. As soon as he was settled, he beckoned them, his spider-like fingers waggling, drawing them forth.

Lucian’s retreating footsteps, however, seemed to clutch at Alexander’s attention greedily. He appeared to size up the old man, shook his head, and turned after Lucian, disappearing into the hallway’s shadows.

Norman hesitated, cursing. He expected to follow at Alex’s heel but, before he knew it, found himself about-facing to approach the bed. Heather backed away a step to allow him access.

Norman crouched beside the old man. Up close, he was a pitiful semblance of life.

Despite the images of gnarled fingers and putrefying bodies floating in his mind’s eye, he leant closer to the bloodied ruin.

Erupting from the sheets, the old man surged forwards and grabbed him by the collar with a bony fist, wrenching him forwards until they were face to face. His strength was incredible, frightening. A burgeoning fury flickered behind his eyes, and his voice carried a fire that it probably hadn’t known for a long time. “They didn’t want you see them,” he breathed.

Norman’s voice caught in his throat, “W—What?”

“There’s someone out there.”

“Who?”

The old man’s eyes twitched. “They didn’t want you to see,” he said. He glanced around the ward, as though expecting to see ghouls awaiting him in the shadows.

“Who didn’t?”

“They’re watching you, out there.”